A Bundt Instrument Read online

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  A Note from Nancy

  Blood, Sweat and Tiers

  Poppy’s Lemon and Lavender Bundt Cake

  Also by Nancy Warren

  About the Author

  Introduction

  A cozy English village, a baking contest...and Murder!

  I can remember a time when I baked for fun. I loved dreaming up new recipes, trying different combinations of flavors. Sharing my creations with friends and family.

  Now? I have nightmares where the TV cameras are on me and I’m baking naked. Or I open my oven and my cake pans are empty. You don’t need to be Freud to figure out I’m freaking out. This week on The Great British Baking Contest could be my last. I am one bad bake away from being waved good-bye.

  Sure, I’d get my weekends back, but I’d lose the excitement of being part of a popular reality show, of spending time with the other bakers who’ve become my friends, and, most important, of having time to snoop around Broomewode Hall for secrets about my origins.

  When a heated argument breaks out in Broomewode village pub, I put it down to nerves. Until someone winds up dead.

  How am I supposed to concentrate on European Bakes when I’m in the middle of a murder investigation?

  With witches, ghosts, an energy vortex, a black cat and an ancient manor house that holds its secrets tight, this isn't your typical English village.

  Taste this culinary cozy mystery series from USA Today Bestselling author Nancy Warren. Each book is a stand-alone mystery, though the books are linked. They offer good, clean fun, and, naturally, recipes.

  "Fantastic series full of loveable characters."

  The best way to keep up with new releases and special offers is to join Nancy’s newsletter at nancywarren.net.

  Praise for The Great Witches Baking Show series

  “I thoroughly enjoyed reading this book. It's a brilliant mix of cozy mystery and The Great British Baking Show, both of which I love!”

  Merrie, Amazon reviewer

  “Such a cute, fun read to kick off a new series!”

  Becky, Amazon Top 1000 Reviewer

  “The depth of character is what truly sets Warren’s books apart from other cozy mystery series.”

  Michelle, Amazon reviewer

  Chapter 1

  “Ta-da!” my voice rang out as I presented my latest baking marvel to Mildred. She floated closer, her white pinafore flapping in the gentle breeze that came through the open kitchen window. “What do you think?” I asked, feeling pretty pleased with myself.

  Mildred’s brow furrowed, and her nose crinkled with a look of distaste I’d come to recognize––and fear.

  “Yer cake has a great hole in its center,” she said, sounding as horrified as if Gateau were placing a dead mouse at her feet. “My mistress would have turned me out of the house without so much as a character reference if I’d ever dared serve her such a thing.”

  I sighed and shook my head. No matter how many times I explained modern living to Mildred, she couldn’t get her head out of the Victorian times. My kitchen ghost had been the cook here in my cottage over a hundred and fifty years ago, and she was always critical of my efforts. Dead or not, get with the times, I wanted to say, but Mildred was a kind soul (in her own crotchety way), and I didn’t want to upset her.

  Of course, in her day, losing her job was her greatest fear. Mine, in the days of TV reality shows, was being humiliated in front of the millions of viewers who’d be watching me fail if I got sent home this week. As we entered week four of The Great British Baking Contest, I was practicing day and night, trying to up my game. I couldn’t afford any screw-ups after my performance last week. I owed it to myself and to contest judge Elspeth Peach––who I now privately considered to be my witchy godmother.

  “It’s called a Bundt cake,” I told Mildred. “It’s supposed to look like that.”

  “Hmph. A Blunder cake more like.” She chortled at her own joke.

  Gateau, my black cat and familiar, was curled up on a chair beside the stove, watching us both. I’m sure if I could read cat-mind, Gateau would be despairing of my puny human efforts to bake the perfect cake. Chill out, she’d be thinking. Go roll around in the sun. She’d spent most of the morning in the garden already, chasing butterflies and having a good old scratch on the cobblestoned path. She couldn’t get enough of rolling around on her belly. It was mid-May now, and I would have been outside with her, tending my herbs and enjoying the gloriously warm spring weather, if I hadn’t been in such a panic about my baking. Instead, I’d spent the morning “embellishing” my white cotton tank top with splatters of vanilla extract and batter. Thank goodness there were no bonus points for being a tidy cook. The kitchen was a bomb site.

  I was hanging on by a thread, and I knew it. I was one “blunder cake” away from saying goodbye to my new friends on the baking show and to my best chance of finding out the secrets of my parentage at Broomewode Hall.

  I could not let that happen.

  I stuck a fork in my cake, which made Mildred even more sour-faced. “I wish you could taste it, too,” I told her. “I could use a second opinion.”

  She shook her head at me. “Why don’t you try again, this time without the hole?” She floated away, back to whatever pressing ghostly business she had that us mere mortals weren’t privy to.

  I bit into the morsel of cake. Without a second set of taste buds around, I pretended to be a judge on the show. How would Jonathon Pine react? It seemed that he usually waited to see what Elspeth Peach would say and then weighed in with his opinion. I tried to taste the flavors and feel the texture critically as I chewed. When I’d swallowed, I put on a British accent and imitated celebrity judge Elspeth Peach. “Very good crumb on this cake, Poppy. The raspberry and lemon flavors are coming through nicely. But I feel you could do better.”

  Argh, even in my fantasies, Elspeth was critical. She was also right. I had to do better.

  I looked around my kitchen for inspiration. It was my favorite room in this old cottage and the reason I’d bought it, even if it did come with Mildred, who was full of baking opinions and no help with the mortgage. The shelves were already bursting with baking ingredients: ground almonds, polenta, icing sugar, demerara sugar—every kind of flour under the sun. Rows of mason jars were filled with sour cherries, currants, desiccated coconut, colorful sprinkles. I tried to always keep a healthy stock of produce so that any flash of sudden inspiration could be fulfilled immediately—you never knew when a good idea might strike you. But today I was lacking va-va-voom. At least the cake wasn’t as sunken as my spirits.

  This week’s theme was something called European Bakes, and our first challenge was to make a cake with a European history. After a ton of research (hours online, plus scouring my growing library of cookbooks), I discovered that the Bundt cake, which I’d always thought had originated in North America, was actually from Germany. The Bundt cake pans I’d grown up with were an Americanized version of a German pan that was used to make a cake they called Bundkuchen. I was delighted about my discovery and hoped no one else had blown through as many precious baking hours surfing the net as I had this week. I needed my cake to be unique. And tasty—there was no getting away from the taste test.

  Now I had varieties of Bundt cake all over every av
ailable kitchen surface and zero clue whether the one with hazelnuts and chocolate tasted better than the lavender and lemon, or if my current attempt––raspberry and white chocolate––was the winner. Clearly, I needed someone with a pulse to help me decide.

  I rinsed off my floury hands and called my best friend, Gina. “I need you to come over here, stat,” I said, before she’d barely got in a “hello.” “It’s a cake emergency. And I’ll provide wine.” She laughed before saying she was up to the challenge and would hop in the car pronto. I thanked my lucky stars for Gina. Even if we couldn’t choose the perfect bake, we could gossip and she’d remind me that everything was going to be okay. She was definitely more positive than Mildred.

  When I got off the phone, I realized that Mildred had been hovering nearby. She straightened her mobcap and said, “Well, I know when I’m not wanted,” and before I could tell her how much I appreciated her advice, she’d faded into the old stone wall. Gateau’s little head snapped up, and she flicked her tail as if to say, Good riddance. That cat had an appetite for many things, but ghosts were not one of them.

  Poor Mildred, such a sensitive spirit. I’d have to think of a way to make it up to her. Maybe something pretty for the kitchen since she spent so much time here. I wondered who would have taken over Broomewode’s gift shop now that Eileen was no longer with us. Maybe something in there would suit Mildred’s quaint style.

  At the sound of Gina’s little Ford Fiesta pulling into my drive, my heart soared. I’d cleaned up the mess in the kitchen and then placed my cakes in a neat row on the old oak table, as if they were about to be judged in the tent. I was going to give Gina the full baking show experience—and hopefully she’d do the same with her judging.

  Gina let herself in through the front door, and I rushed over for a massive hug. Her skin smelled of the lavender soap she’d been using since we were teenagers. As a makeup and hair expert on the show, she was always trying out new looks. Today she’d styled her dark hair into soft, shiny waves. “I was thinking of trying it out on you,” she confessed when I complimented her. She reached for my long, straight brown hair. “What do you think?”

  “I’m so stressed about baking. I can’t think about my hair right now.”

  She put her head to one side. “And viewers want to instantly recognize their favorite bakers. Maybe we’ll leave it as is.”

  “I missed you,” I said. I loved having Gina at Broomewode while the baking contest was going on. I could moan and complain to someone who cared. And I did.

  Gina laughed. “It’s only Tuesday, Pops.”

  “When you’ve been making Bundt cake since Sunday evening, three days can seem like a lifetime. Believe me.”

  I asked her to take a seat at the kitchen table, then cut her thin wedges of each different recipe.

  “They all look lovely,” Gina said, eyeing her plate greedily.

  “I think I’ve got the decoration down, but it’s the taste that’s important. Impressing Elspeth and Jonathon is no joke. The flavors have got to be nothing short of perfection. The balance and texture sublime. Otherwise it’s curtains for me.”

  I watched nervously as Gina chomped through each option. I watched her face for feedback, but she refused even to look at me.

  Finally, she put her fork down.

  “Well?” I asked. “Don’t leave me hanging. Which is the best?”

  She cleared her throat and sat up straight. “I solemnly declare that the lavender and lemon is the winner.”

  “You sure?” I asked. “This doesn’t have anything to do with your lavender soaps, does it? I know how much you love that scent.”

  “Nope. It’s my impartial verdict. It’s delicious. Now cut me another slice.”

  I let out a huge sigh of relief. I trusted Gina. Now that I’d finally settled on my flavors, I could turn my attention to achieving the perfect crumb. I was reaching for the bottle of wine I’d bribed Gina with when my phone rang.

  I picked it up, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

  “Oh, hello,” a crisp, very British voice said. “I’m so terribly sorry for calling out of the blue like this. My name is Jessica Fowler-Bishop.”

  I was about to tell her she had the wrong number, as I’d never heard of any Jessica Fowler-Bishop, when she said, “I live in Broomewode Village.” Okay, now she had my attention. “Eve at the pub gave me your number. She said you wouldn’t mind.”

  I must have looked baffled because Gina swallowed some cake and mouthed, “Who is it?”

  I shook my head, just as nonplussed. Eve was a friend and a fellow witch. She wouldn’t give my number out if she didn’t think I’d approve. “Um, okay,” I said. “And how can I help you?”

  “I’m the matron of honor at the wedding of my dear friend Lauren Maycock,” she began. It turned out that Lauren's favorite aunt had planned to make the wedding cake, which was a tradition in their family, “But she’s ill and now there isn’t time.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said.

  “The whole family is in a complete panic. Worried it’s a bad omen or something.”

  What has this got to do with me?

  “And that’s why I’m calling,” Jessica said, as though she sensed my confusion and that I was about to end the call. “Lauren’s a huge fan of The Great British Baking Contest. We both are. We live in London now, but Lauren’s back in the village, staying with her mum while she organizes the wedding. She watches the filming whenever she gets the chance. You’re her favorite contestant, Poppy, and if you would make Lauren’s wedding cake, it would solve everything.”

  I was forming my lips into a polite refusal when she kept talking. “I asked Eve about you, and she said you were the nicest contestant on the show. I imagine it would be terrific publicity for you. Please, will you make the wedding cake and turn this disaster into a wonderful gift for my best friend?”

  Jessica paused. I looked at Gina, who had almost finished her second piece of cake. She was watching me, obviously waiting for me to get off the phone so I could tell her what was going on. I could feel my eyes widening with disbelief. The show hadn’t even aired yet, but a complete stranger knew my name. And my cakes.

  “That’s very sweet of you to say,” I told Jessica, “but I’m a home baker. I’m not qualified for such an important job. Surely you’d be better off with someone who makes wedding cakes for a living. A seasoned professional?”

  “I hear what you’re saying, but you really are her favorite,” Jessica said. “It would mean so much to her on her special day. After all, you only get one chance at the perfect wedding. This would be the icing on the cake, so to speak.” She chuckled. “Besides, you have until Friday. Plenty of time.”

  I gulped. Was this lady for real?

  Friday? There was no way I had time to practice for this weekend’s filming and make a wedding cake.

  I started to politely decline, saying that it was only a few days away, when Jessica laughed. “But on the show you make the most incredible creations in only a few hours.”

  Huh, she’d got me there.

  “It’s such a fantastic venue, too,” Jessica continued. “The Orangery at Broomewode Hall––do you know it? Very swanky. And you’d be invited to the reception, of course. The chefs at Broomewode are doing the catering, so you’d be in for a delicious meal.”

  I was about to refuse again when the word Broomewode sank in. I’d been trying with limited success to find out about my birth mother, who I believed had once worked in the kitchen. With Katie Donegal, the chef at Broomewode Hall, still convalescing in Ireland, this could be a chance for me to get cozy with other people who worked there. Maybe, if I had a legitimate “in,” I could ask questions in the kitchen. In spite of the time crunch, this felt like a breakthrough.

  I swallowed. Was I really going to do this? I really didn’t have time.

  “And, of course, the fee will reflect the short notice. Shall we say seven hundred pounds?”

  Seven hundred poun
ds? That was a thousand U.S. dollars. For a cake. I thought of all the extra ingredients I could buy with that money. It would also help with my mortgage this month.

  “I suppose I could find a way to squeeze it in this week,” I told Jessica after a pause. “After all, I’ve made three cakes today already––what’s another?” I laughed nervously.

  Gina started to rise out of her chair, ready to grab the phone away. I batted my hand at her and turned my back.

  “Wonderful!” Jessica’s voice rang out with pleasure. “Obviously, there’s no time for the traditional fruitcake style of wedding cake, so you can do whatever your heart desires, though I did think the wedding cake at Meghan and Harry’s wedding was quite lovely.”

  Of course she did. It was a royal wedding.

  “Something contemporary but, you know, still traditional,” she added. “Send me some ideas by email, and we’ll work it out.”

  Oh, great. Vague much? I took Jessica’s details, and we made arrangements to meet the day before the wedding.

  I hung up, wondering how I’d let this person talk me into making yet another complicated cake when I was slap-bang in the middle of the competition of a lifetime. Clearly this Jessica was a very persuasive woman. With her positive spin on everything and the way she’d gotten me to say yes, I’d bet she was in sales. And if so, she was the top salesperson on her team.

  I explained the situation to Gina, who looked at me like I had a Bundt-shaped hole in my head. “You’re a glutton for punishment, Pops,” she said, wagging a finger at me. “Isn’t it enough you’re part of the country’s most-cherished TV series right now? The whole world watches the baking contest. Now you’re putting your chance at victory in jeopardy. Again.”